


And So They Flew (And Other HtTYD Oneshots)

by EtheriumArt



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-09 08:10:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17998148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtheriumArt/pseuds/EtheriumArt
Summary: This is a collection of oneshots I am writing for How to Train Your Dragon. I have a few written already and decided to compile them. I hope you enjoy!





	1. And So They Flew

Many years had passed since they had last flown the skies together; the king wondered if he ever would again. Part of him grew sick at the the thought of man, their swords and knives of cruel steel and biting iron only brought pain and bloodshed to his people. But the great dragon remembered.

He remembered that boy, no older than he, taking the sky from him, confining him to a small valley on an island. He remembered how that boy held the knife, and instead of cutting his flesh, cut the ropes that bound him. He remembered how the boy loved him, and how he loved the boy. He remembered how the boy took the sky, but gave it back. 

But that was a long time ago. Now, the great dragon king spent his time presiding over his kingdom, and tending to his family. He and his mate had three children, all young and full of fire. He had no doubt that his first-hatched son would make a fine king someday, after he was gone. But before that would come to pass he had much to worry about. 

One day, as the black dragon sunned himself on the rocks just outside of the massive waterfall that guarded his home, watching over his family, he saw a familiar shape in the mist. It was a shape he had not seen in a long while, but the sight of it made his stomach turn. 

Out of the mist came a ship, single masted and small. Its rough wood looked hand hewn and the figurehead was painted in a rainbow of colors. He would deliver a warning, then.   
Landing on the figurehead, he stared the man down, but the man did not draw a weapon. His face seemed familiar, yet was alien to him. But when he spoke? The king was taken back to times of flying with another, the boy who gave him back the sky. 

And so once more, they flew. 

When one year had passed, the king of dragons climbed up to that rock once more and waited for a ship, a ship to bring him his boy. Out of the mist it came, that same ship, with the same figurehead in a myriad of colors, with the same rough, hand hewn wood and woven sail. In that same ship, holding the same wheel, was his boy.

He jumped, wings outstretched, overjoyed at the sight of his boy. The viking chief received him with open arms, much stronger than the arms that had received him all those years ago. But he did not care, for he was here, and that was what mattered. 

And so, they flew. 

Every year on the same day for ten years the viking chief flew with the dragon king. Sometimes the boy brought his mate, or his children, and sometimes the dragon would do the same. Yet the years he came alone were the sweetest for the dragon king, for it reminded him of a time when all he had was the boy, and all the boy had was the dragon. Each year the boy’s hair grew a little greyer and the wrinkles on his face grew more in number, and each year the dragon’s scales shone a little less brightly and his eyes a little less green. 

And so they flew.

The eleventh year, the boy came, same as always, and met the king on the rock. His hair was grey and his face seemed thinner, but it was still his boy. He sat down on the rock and wept, telling the dragon king that he had lost his mother. The king could do nothing but hold his boy close to him, wishing he could fly beyond the stars to wherever souls live. 

And so they flew. 

It got harder and harder to fly together, but still, with every passing year, the dragon king would come onto the rock and wait for his boy to come out of the mist. Their children were no longer children and their bones no longer young, but the promise of the skies and togetherness made them forget the pains of growing older, and in their hearts they were still young. The dragon met the boy’s grandchildren, and the boy met his. The great dragon suspected that the boy may be one of the last to remember his kind.

And so they flew. 

And then, on the fifty fifth year, when the great dragon king climbed out of the waterfall and onto his rock, the ship came slowly out of the mist. There were two figures on board, neither of them his boy. Something was amiss, the king could tell, for the boy’s children were here in his place. He struggled to his feet as the boy’s children stepped off the ship and onto the rock. The fair haired man unwrapped a parcel and presented it to the dragon king, his face full of sorrow. In the man’s hands there was the boy’s shoulder plate, adorned with the image of a red dragon. The king wished for all the world dragons could weep, for he knew his boy could never fly with him again. Affixing the plate to the gear mechanism on the king’s tail, the fair haired man and green eyed woman sat with the king in silence. The king vowed to himself that he would never again feel the wind beneath his wings above the sea, not without his boy.

And so they did not fly. 

Still the fair haired man came, wearing the ornaments of chief, to sit with the king, year after year.

But they never flew.

After five years time, the man returned to the rock to see no dragon. Worried he grew, searching for the familiar dark outline that his father had loved so dearly and that he had grown to care for as well. When at last he turned to leave, he saw a dragon climb onto the rock, a great and proud dragon king. Dark like his father and light like his mother, the new king stood tall and strong, ready to fly. 

And so they flew. 

To this day, there’s a place at the edge of the world where the sky meets the sea, and a great viking chief meets the dragon king in secret, one day a year. It will be carried on by their children, and their children’s children, until the world is safe for dragons once more. 

And so, they fly.


	2. May the Valkyries Sing Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Hiccup faces Drago alone, Stoick must make a terrible choice, one that costs him greatly.

He knew it couldn't last, this bliss. He felt it deep, in a place that was never wrong. His bones, his gut, his heart, all of it told him it wasn't meant to be. From the first moment he laid eyes on her, he knew that it was too good to be true. The way the sun danced in her air and the sea sparkled in her eyes, surely he was already in Valhalla, with his long lost bride at last.

But no, he was very much alive, and she was very much there. He wasn't dreaming, his Valka really was there. On this unnamed island in their vast archipelago, standing in the snow and ice, fighting by his side to protect her dragons. 

But they were cornered, Drago had called the Alpha to bring them down. Stoick held her hands and his breath, waiting for the blow to end it all, the blast of ice that would encase them forever. He knew it couldn't last, this bliss.

The blow never came. 

When Stoick dare open his eyes, he saw the most terrifying thing in the world. He had faced a great many things with a smile that would make ordinary men turn tail and run in terror; he had tamed mountains, leveled seas. He had never faced something as totally horrifying as he did now. He heard a strange yelling, something foul and fierce. He looked to see Drago swinging his spear wildly, letting loose the strange cry. 

“What in…” Stoick began, holding Valka’s hand and looking out on the scene. But his question was soon answered. As he watched, the Alpha’s attention shifted from where he and Valka huddled behind the large outcropping of ice to where Drago was swinging his spear. Drago stopped, and slowly lowered his weapon, pointing directly at Stoick’s son’s beloved Night Fury. 

“Hiccup!” Stoick cried out, running from Valka’s side as if his feet were on fire, and she tore after him. “C’mon, Gobber!” he yelled breathlessly, as his best friend ran towards him.   
His heart pounded in his chest like a great beating drum, played by Odin himself as he tore across the battlefield, his only objective to save his son. “HICCUP!” he screamed, as he ran through the ice to his son, cornered by his dragon. 

“STOP!” Hiccup yelled, holding an unsteady hand out to Toothless. He whipped his head around, seeing Stoick running to him at the last second.

“SON!” Stoick screamed, feeling the fear and fury of a thousand fires burning through his veins. That was his boy. That was his boy and his boy needed him. 

“DAD!” Hiccup screamed, extending a hand towards Stoick, the fear on his face as plain as day. “No!”

It was at that moment Stoick felt it, a white hot pain, searing and stretching, burning like the great flaming sword of Surtr, ruler of Muspelheim, had been plunged into his soul. He could not cry out, he could not call to his wife, his son. He didn't even feel the ground.

He knew it couldn't last, this bliss.

Time stopped, and he opened his eyes from where he lay on the ground. A beautiful woman stood before him, face alight with glorious fury, her armor and robes stained with the red hot blood of battle. Her hair flowed in the wind like black silk, and her golden eyes burned with the fire of a thousand suns. Her wings were white and stretched like a great banner of war, and her steed was a magnificent white dragon, long and smooth and sleek. 

“You have lived a long and fruitful life,” she said, her voice awesome and terrifying, like the sea in a storm. “Odin is pleased with you.”

He sat up. “It’s over, then?”

She nodded once. “Your fight in Midgard is done. It is time to hang up your earthly axe and sword and join me in the journey to Asgard. There is a seat waiting for you in the great and mighty halls of Valhalla.”

He stood and turned to the frozen faces of his son and wife, both looking for all the world like their lives had ended, and not his. He wiped his tears from his eyes, knowing he would likely not see them again until they joined him in Valhalla. 

“I knew it couldn't last, this bliss,” he said, and turned his face from them, and to the mighty Valkyrie. 

Valhalla was waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after crying for an hour when I got home from seeing The Hidden World. This series means so much to me and has been such an important part of my life that it's hard to believe and accept that it's all over. Like Hiccup, I'm reluctant to let go.


End file.
